Winter

Thursday evening the dogs run ahead
through the unraked cheeks of leaves. I’ve let things stay,
and circle around too much. I’ve lost the air
for other things. The drive into the city for winter tires,
the tail-lights that need repair, the brakes
I’ve been riding too long.
I stand here at the door a little while more,
and let the dogs feed scraps of barks into the breeze.
I suppose, to them, its seems alive, shuffling along,
casting out and resurrecting the dead. But dogs
shouldn’t dream. Night’s here, it’s the end of the week.
In a few minutes, winter comes.

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